For an organisation that likes to make a buck, this won’t do. Innovations such as the Zoo Twilights concert series attract said punters for six weeks a year, but Zoos Victoria was interested in producing a more sustainable event. Something hip for young hipsters that can be run 365 days a year. Enter I, Animal.

Aside from the clunky title ripped from Alex Proyas adaptation of Asimov’s cult short story collection ‘I, Robot,’ Animal rides on some slick branding. It’s the second attraction to utilise the same hacked iPod technology that powers the ‘O’ device at Hobart’s Museum of Old and New Art. Exploiting the touchscreen functionality of the iPod is an innovation that may change interactive entertainment as we know it, and it’s use here is arguably more effective than its application at MONA.

The Zoos Victoria website features appealing stills of people on the tour, showcasing the technology and the environs of the zoo itself. This is accompanied by a cool animation set against split blocks of colour narrated by a sonorous female voice. The true shame of I, Animal is that they did not use the same voice talent to narrate the tour itself. More on that later.

I, Animal is comprised of four distinct ‘loops’. These are Giraffes, Penguins, Elephants and Gorillas, with Elephants being the most popular. When one arrives at the gate and receives their ‘O’ device (here named ‘Zoe’) it is counting down to the time when the tour starts. At that point another female voice is piped through the headphones explaining the four loops. Visitors then have a short window to select one. Inevitably some are more popular than others. If you don’t select quickly you may be allocated a different loop.

At this point the gates open up and the narrator guides you into the zoo on a prescribed route. As you pass a series of enclosures she tells stories about their inhabitants. As the narrator implies there is something magical about being at the Zoo after hours, when everyone else has left. It incorporates the same illicit thrill you’d have if you’d broken in.

The loops are structured using humour to build rapport before the scripts delve into existential territory. The first loop I did was Giraffes, because that’s my favourite animal. The gags come thick and fast and before you know it you find yourself in a scene delineating the triumph of human achievement. This is where I, Animal is most effective. It engages the audience by activating genuine contemplation by combining facts, philosophy and a rousing soundtrack. The comedy is less successful, and this is to do with the talent.

As a character the narrator is unsympathetic. Her tone is patronising and it makes her hard to identify with. When I discussed it with my colleague she pointed out that ‘maybe a man doesn’t like to be guided by a woman.’ Though that comment reveals more about the colleague than men in general, it did remind me that I don’t like to be patronised. And I especially don’t want to pay $39 for the privilege.

The next loop I did was Penguins. On it my friend and I were separated because he didn’t push the right button fast enough. Though you are encouraged by the presenter to ‘have your own experience’ getting split from your date is a bummer. Again that comes down to cost. No one wants to spend $78 on quality time only to have it thwarted by what amounts to a technological lottery.

The Penguins loop features yet another persona who fails to resonate. Each participant is asked to use their finger to draw a monster on their Zoe, whom subsequently comes alive to berate them. The character is designed for laughs but isn’t written well enough to earn any, and the chemistry with the lead is non-existent. This is compounded by the misplaced profanity, presumably included on the basis that this show is pitched at adults all of whom consider swearing hilarious. The irony is only children find curse words amusing on the basis that they are rude. I, Animal fails to recognise that an adult audience is more sophisticated than that.

As with Giraffes, Penguins hits its marks when it mines emotional territory. The seal enclosure at the Melbourne Zoo is a spectacular exhibit. I, Animal makes full use of two large underwater viewing portals. As the seals careen past the glass performing manoeuvres that appear choreographed, the narrator tells of how member of the pod cut her throat on debris while at sea and was bought to the zoo to be rescued. This segues into contemplation about love, death and the inhibitions one experiences at the hands of fear. And it works. I found myself successfully manipulated into feeling the requisite emotions. This cathartic component is the payoff. It left me wanting more.

By my third loop at I ,Animal I was buzzing.  I knew some people at the gate and I was giving them advice about which loop to choose. One of the staff came up to me to chat about what I thought about my experiences so far, and asked me which loop I planned to do that day. I informed him and said that I was excited about doing Elephants. ‘You’ll have to tell me what you think of it.’ He told me.

I never got that chance. When Zoe offered me a choice of loops to undertake there was only two, Giraffes and Penguins, both of which I had done. I was a loss as to why the staff member didn’t inform me of this ten minutes before the show was due to start. I imagine in the fine print Zoos Victoria reserves the right to do whatever they want. However undertaking the same loop less than a week later was somewhat disheartening. Not to mention $39 dollars down the drain.

Suffice to say the second time around it wasn’t as good. That smarmy voice is even more annoying when you know what she’s going to say. Still, it’s early days for I, Animal. And given that Zoos Victoria plans to run the event 365 days a year, one hopes that the content kinks will be ironed out so that the show fulfils its potential. As for me I’ll be saving the remaining two loops for next summer. Perhaps by then I, Animal won’t be quite so undercooked.

http://www.zoo.org.au/melbourne/whats-on/i-animal

The novelty of this is offset by certain sacrifices that one makes when they choose to become an exotic bird in an overcrowded cage. The food isn’t going to be as good as it is in Australia, ditto the coffee. These are hard adjustments to make but certainly not insurmountable.

The true culture shock of moving to New York arrives in the form of the space deficiencies. High-density living isn’t a new thing in the city. The first multi-story railroad apartments went up in the Lower East Side during the 1830s. That was prior to the need for a bathroom in every apartment, over thirty years before the first elevator was installed in a New York building.

My current apartment is on the fifth floor. The advantages of this include a panoramic view of Manhattan and glutes that get more amazing each time I ascend each flight. On the minus side negotiating five floors three or four times a day quickly becomes an exhausting prospect.

Once inside the apartment one discovers that the size of the bathroom, like that of many apartments in the city, is negligible. That’s because it was installed in a corner of the kitchen way after the building was constructed, as an afterthought, when hygiene became cool.

There’s no sink, and the toilet is sandwiched tightly between the wall and the bathtub. The bathroom door is on an angle making it a very tight squeeze if you choose to close it while you’re on the can. So I don’t. And I can do this because I live alone. To an extent this is a luxury. A little more than I can afford but way less than it should cost in this area of Brooklyn due to the fact that I got lucky.

I can’t overstate the perks of living alone, but the one thing about New York is that you are never really alone because people like to come here. Australians visit the city for a week or two or five. And these people need somewhere to stay.

Most people I know can’t afford a hotel for three weeks. We’re artists, existentially hampered and financially impaired by our vocation. I use we because I was once that guy who rocked up to the city without planning my accommodation, figuring that I would just work it out. Working it out usually involved finding someone else’s couch or bed to sleep on.

If I’m entirely honest entering the city this way is a form of hustling. You’re relying on your wit and antipodean charm to endear yourself to someone to the point that they will house you. It’s a tall order in a town where space is a premium. Somehow I managed to pull it off.

Now I find myself in my own apartment looking at the situation from the other end of the barrel. Just how long do I allow people to stay for? When I was a couch surfer my rationale was always that I had come a long way, and my friends should be accommodating. When I arrived I found that each night I stayed with my friends had to be meticulously negotiated. Even after this protracted process accommodation wasn’t guaranteed.

One friend whom I will quote later in this article actually cancelled me at 4pm of the afternoon I was supposed to go over and stay because she was ‘too busy’. The fact that this meant I might have to spend a night on the street didn’t resonate with her. She needed the whole apartment to wash her hair before jetting abroad the next day.

Despite the obvious presence of luxuriant spare room, my ex partner who has lived here for the last eight years says ‘I don’t let anyone stay for more than two nights. Otherwise it just gets too much.’ But what exactly is too much? My aforementioned friend offered this detailed response:

‘Guest impacts ranged from: sleeping with head out of the window because guest spilled amyl nitrate on floor & passed out, kicking guest in the face while guest slept because guest set house on fire before going to bed, trying to talk guest one and guest two into sharing living space with each other, rescuing guest from snowy sidewalk out front where guest thought it would be ok to sleep, guest throwing dead pigeon at housemate, threatening to kill guest, guest deciding to fall in love with couch surfer and get married in Jamaica queens, guests breaking in through window, losing guests, guests coming home having being “robbed” (ie they fell over and lost their bag), three guest couples breaking up during their stay, two couples getting married during their stay, having to put up guests parents for wedding of initial guest, guest becoming dear friend who learnt KRS song for me before giving me synthetic painkillers that made me vomit in the Bodega, guest getting drunk and trying to kiss housemate, guest ruining public relations with block on our behalf.’

It’s an exhaustive list. The respondent was so flummoxed by the question she was unable to provide a lucid answer to the question of how it made her feel. I turned to her roommate who provided this response:

‘Over the two year period we were in New York we had 37 guests, some for months at a time. The door was always open and it was the least precious I’ve ever been about sharing space, as opposed to in Australia. It was a pain the arse when guests were disrespectful, like the amyl nitrate story and the sense of entitlement that people felt.’

There’s a big difference between offering your space for two days and two months. This month my friend Annie is coming to the city for three weeks. I said she could stay with me for one. Feeling bad that I didn’t offer more time I again consulted members of the expat panel. The consensus was ‘One week is actually a long time.’

When I thought about this I realised that they were right. Two people living on top of each other in my shoebox apartment will be a tight squeeze. I will have to close the bathroom door. Annie and I are inevitably going to hear every noise and smell every odour the other makes. To say that we will bond is an understatement. Though I think the visit will make rather than break our friendship I anticipate that a week in each other’s pockets is going to be more than sufficient.

NB *Dear Annie stayed one night before declaring my apartment has bedbugs. She currently resides in a glass tower over on Bayard Street with a more affluent friend.